Thin Line
by Kyra4
Summary: There is a thin line between the old year and the new; between love and pain; between anger and lust; between enemies and... something altogether else. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All characters and recognizable places belong to JK - yadda yadda yadda, not making any money, only the plot is mine.

Warnings: Smut!fic! (but not in chapter 1) Contains language and sexual content, the latter of which is (as requested) very much in the dub-con category.

Notes: Fic will be 3 chapters long. It is already complete and will be updated weekly until the whole thing's posted. Many thanks to Alex and Noelle for beta reading! You guys ROCK :)

This fic was an entry in the "Ring in the New Year with Draco and Hermione" fic exchange. The request was as follows: "I would like a fic involving an unexpected encounter between a drunk Malfoy and melancholic Hermione, right before midnight on New Year's. Bastard/Dark!Draco, Witty!Hermione. Very dubious consent ensues. No fluff, please!"

OoOoOoO

God, would he ever stop breaking her heart? _Ever? _She didn't think she could take much more of this.

Hermione shouldered open the door, and the night chill hit her like a slap to the face. Angrily dashing tears away with one hand, she pulled her wrap tighter with the other... for all the good it did her. The wrap was a flimsy thing, designed more for style than functionality.

The heavy door thudded shut behind her.

For a long moment, she simply stood on the stoop, fighting to get her breathing, and her emotions, under control. And, although she would have preferred not to admit it to herself, waiting – waiting to see if anyone would come after her.

No one did.

Well, of course not. She blinked back the fresh wave of tears that threatened. They were… _much _too busy at the moment.

She uttered a short bark of bitter laughter and reached up to push her hair out of her face. It had almost entirely escaped the chignon she had crafted so carefully just a few short hours ago; never able to be tamed for long, _her _hair.

Maybe that was why Ron so _clearly_ preferred the company of another tonight; the daughter of no less a personage than the Italian Minister of Magic himself, who had seen fit to privilege the British Ministry with his attendance at tonight's New Years Ball.

_She_ had hair that rippled like cool black silk, all the way down to her waist.

An errant sob caught Hermione unaware and almost managed to rip its way out.

_No_. She bore down on it with all her might, reducing it to a mere gasp, which puffed whitely in the frosty air. It was clear out tonight, and cold. Late, too; nearly midnight. She would miss the countdown.

For a brief moment, she entertained the notion of going back in. Simply holding her head up and carrying on. But she dismissed the thought almost as soon as she'd formed it. It was just too painful. She could not - _would_ not - bear it any longer. This was a new low, and she needed to leave and lick her wounds in solitude.

How could he keep doing this to her? _How?_

First Lavender back in school... then Hannah Abbot a year after graduation; that Ministry intern last year, and now he had progressed to complete, random strangers at formal events!

No. No more. _No MORE_.

With fingers that were shaking from more than just cold, she fumbled the slim diamond solitaire ring off her finger. It came easily, assisted by the chill in the air. Glancing quickly around, she placed it gently down on a nearby stone ledge. Perhaps Ron would see it when he emerged later on, no doubt flushed and tousle-haired, arm in arm with his latest conquest. Perhaps he wouldn't. She found she no longer cared, one way or the other.

Ron could go straight to hell and _stay_ there, for all it mattered to her.

She did spare a moment's thought for Harry; he would probably realize she was missing before Ron did, and would most likely _feel _it more keenly than Ron as well. Ron wasn't likely, after all, to be feeling _anything_ other than that Italian witch's derrière for the rest of the night. Harry, though... he'd beat himself up over it later, regardless of the fact that she didn't hold him a bit responsible. Of course he wouldn't have noticed what was going on; he and Ginny had only just returned from their honeymoon in time to celebrate Christmas at the Burrow. It was a miracle they'd left their bedroom long enough to put in an appearance tonight at all, and they only had eyes for each other, which was an entirely natural state for a pair of deliriously happy newlyweds. Harry probably wouldn't have noticed if the building had caught on fire!

So she didn't blame him. She envied him his happiness, and much more than that she envied _Ginny_ his devotedness... but blame him? No. Which simply meant that as soon as he actually cottoned on, he'd blame himself enough for both of them. That's just the way he was.

Well, she couldn't help the way he was. She couldn't bear going back in there to find him, either. And she couldn't stay here any longer. She'd just have to deal with the fallout tomorrow.

_Well, congratulations, Hermione_, she thought to herself as she descended the steps, her inner voice both bitter and terribly sad. _Ginny, Fleur and Molly were all talking about reducing for a New Year's resolution, but you've got them all beat, haven't you? Gone and lost yourself a good ninety kilos, and it's not even midnight yet!_

Eyes still blurred with tears, she reached the sidewalk - and that was when the heel of her left shoe broke, twisting her ankle and nearly sending her spilling into the street. She managed, just barely, to catch herself on the stairway's railing.

She clung to it for a moment, heart racing, breath coming in short, sharp gasps, wondering what she could possibly have done to deserve so much misfortune in so short a time. Could the night get any worse? Honestly, _could _it? There was nothing she wanted to do more at that moment than just stomp her feet and _scream_ - scream like a toddler throwing a tantrum, scream with frustration and anger and hurt. But obviously, with one ankle compromised and the other foot still clad in a treacherous heeled shoe of its own (and what had she been thinking to wear heels tonight anyway!? She was so _not_ a high-heels sort of a girl! Oh right, she'd been thinking Ron would like them, the more fool her...) that would not be in the least bit advisable.

Instead she eased the remains of the shoe off her injured foot, sat on the bottommost step and removed the other one as well, then stood again and gingerly tried her weight on her already-swelling left foot.

It held up... but not without protest. Wincing, she glanced first up, then down the street and was rewarded with the sight of a brightly lit, all-night pharmacy about a block and a half away. She'd been planning to Apparate straight home, assuming the street was deserted, but now she decided she'd hobble down there first and pick up some Muggle painkillers. Her injury was not so severe as to warrant a trip to St. Mungo's, but nor did she have the least desire to re-enter the party and ask for help with a healing charm. As for healing it herself, her present shaken and agitated state made it unwise to try.

Perhaps most compelling of all was the fact that Ron would have laughed at the idea of easing her discomfort through Muggle means. Well, Ron could rot. She wanted some Tylenol.

Letting go of the railing, she took a step toward the pharmacy; and hissed a sharp breath in through her teeth and the pang her ankle gave her. The next step was easier, though, and the following one easier still. She limped away from the Ministry's New Year party in her stocking feet, her ring still lying near the top of the steps, and both of her shoes at the bottom.

OoOoOoO

" - and hex you into next week, you stupid Muggle bast - "

"Good Lord, _Malfoy!?_"

It was a silly question, really; of course it was Draco Malfoy. Despite the fact that he could very nearly have passed for an ordinary Londoner in the coal black trousers and simple white dress shirt he was wearing, there really was no mistaking the man. He was the only person she'd ever met in her life, after all, who possessed hair the exact color of confectioner's sugar - not to mention that scathing, sneering tone of voice she'd thought she'd never have to hear again after leaving Hogwarts... and was in fact hearing right now.

It was Malfoy, all right... but what in God's name was he doing in a Muggle pharmacy in the middle of the night, and holding the proprietor at _wandpoint_, no less?

She supposed it was her own fault, for assuming the night could not possibly get any worse.

The proprietor, for his part, was wielding a cricket bat, feet planted far apart and looking about ready to bash Malfoy's skull in. In fact, taking advantage of Malfoy's moment of distraction - (for Malfoy was clearly as stupefied at encountering Hermione as she was at encountering him) - he edged in closer and raised the bat to strike.

"NO!" Without having the least idea what compelled her to do so, Hermione lunged forward, injured ankle and all, and interposed herself squarely between the two men.

"Stop it this instant!" It was impossible to say which of them she was addressing; most likely both. But a second later, sensing his hesitation, she turned her attention to the shopkeeper. "This isn't what it looks like."

"Isn't what it looks like!?" the man repeated with incredulous anger. "This person is a lunatic! Comes in here ordering me around like he's the bloody crown prince or something - demanding a hangover potion; yes, a _potion _no less - and now he's threatening me with his little... pointy stick!"

Behind Hermione, Malfoy snarled.

"And spouting nonsense talk too," the proprietor went on; "he offered to pay me with gallons - gallons of _what_, I'd like to know!? Out of his goddamned mind! And now, just now, he called me a _Muggle _- that's not even a word! The man is clearly mad, and a menace. I'm phoning the police!"

"You don't understand!" Well, that was true at any rate; she didn't understand herself. Didn't understand the situation she'd just walked into, and _really_ didn't understand her compulsion to get involved. "I know this man; we went to school together. He's... he..." her mind was racing.

Suddenly, it came to her. "He has Tourette's!"

Behind her, Malfoy gave an indignant squawk. The proprietor's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline, but he lowered the bat - fractionally, at least.

"It's true," Hermione continued in a rush, "it can be alarming if you don't understand it, but really he's harmless."

"Harmless!" Draco choked behind her.

"Sometimes he... gets overexcited and... and it triggers the syndrome. He brandishes... whatever is handy, a stick he picked up on the street; and he shouts things that make no sense. He can even make up words up on the spot, like, like... what did you say?... muggie?"

"Muggle," the man said. He still looked suspicious, but he lowered the bat further. A quick glance out of the corner of her eye revealed to Hermione a Malfoy that was simply staring at her in slack-jawed, horrified disbelief. He'd lowered his wand as well. It appeared that the crisis was over.

"I'll take him home, there's no need for force, or for calling anyone. Really, it's fine." She half turned, and grabbed Draco by the arm. He stiffened, but did not otherwise react. He was still too shocked, it seemed, by her interference.

"Come along, Draco," she said firmly. "That's enough mischief for one night. Let's go."

Astonishingly enough, he came with her. He really did appear to be quite inebriated, she saw; his eyes were slightly out of focus and he was unsteady on his feet. She held onto him until they reached the door.

"Get out of here, then, the both of you!" the proprietor called querulously after them. "I won't call anyone, but I don't want to see either of you around here again, ever!"

That was when Draco wrenched away from her and turned back toward the other man, his pale eyes positively glittering with malevolent mirth.

"Gild the strawberry barber," he shouted, apparently determined to make the most of the free license Hermione had just given him to spout nonsense. "Crispy Chinese chicken, you terrific wanker! Higglety-pigglety-BOO!"

"Malfoy, come ON!" Hermione said frantically, grabbing his arm again and yanking him forcefully out the door. "_Cat testicles!_" Draco hollered furiously just as it slammed shut behind them, isolating them on the cold, deserted midnight street.

OoOoOoO

For a moment they just stood there, staring at each other. Then Draco wrenched his arm away - Hermione hadn't even noticed that she'd still been holding onto it.

"Get off me, Granger," he spat. He raked her quickly from head to foot with eyes as pale, and glintingly cold, as ice. "You haven't changed a bit. Still the same meddlesome know-it-all as ever, eh? Never gets old, fighting other people's battles?" He gave a derisive snort. "Small wonder you're alone on New Year's Eve... even your pair of besotted bookends must have given you up by now. Pathetic. Tourette's. Go bugger your Tourette's, you do-good little -"

_WHAP._

It was impossible to say in that instant which one of them was more shocked that she had slapped him; Draco, staring at her speechlessly as a crimson handprint bloomed across his cheek, or Hermione herself, who didn't even fully comprehend what she had done until it occurred to her that her hand was stinging... badly.

Even so, she didn't back down. To the contrary, her own face was suddenly suffused with a furious flush. She had gone through too much already tonight - too much by _half_ - to put up with his schoolyard insults right now. Or, that was what she told herself at any rate. A smidge closer to the truth might have been that his words had hit painfully close to home. Neither Ron nor Harry _had _noticed her leaving the party. And honestly, that hurt. A lot. Not to mention the _reason_ she'd left.

She'd been wanting something - some_one_ - to lash out at, she realized belatedly, and Malfoy fit the bill nicely.

"Who in Merlin's name do you think you are, Draco Malfoy!?" she demanded furiously. I haven't seen you for five years, and I might as well add that I haven't _missed _you for five seconds! You don't know the _first thing _about who I am today, except that I just saved you getting a cricket bat to the head - which I now very much regret! I'm starting to think a cricket bat to the head would do you a world of _good_, you arrogant, condescending _bastard!_"

For a second, Draco's jaw dropped even further, but he recovered himself quickly. "You're barking, Granger," he spat. "As if that stupid, fat Muggle could possibly have - "

"_And stop disparaging Muggles!_ What were you doing in a Muggle shop anyway, if you still hate them so much!?"

Suddenly, Draco looked defeated.

"Because it was the first place I saw and my head hurts like a bastard, Granger," he said, simultaneously stashing his wand away with his left hand and raising his right to his temple, massaging it with the heel of his hand. "And you're not helping matters any, I might add."

Hermione's curiosity - one of her very strongest inborn traits - got the best of her at that point and she found herself asking, against her better judgment, "First place you saw? Just what are you doing in this part of town, anyway?"

He took a deep breath and for a moment it actually looked as if he might answer... then he seemed to catch himself. His eyes narrowed, his jaw hardened, and any hope of a productive conversation was, Hermione saw in that instant, utterly lost.

"You are something else, Granger, you know that?" he said in a tone of tired disgust. "I didn't ask for your help and I sure as _hell _don't want to stand around in the cold, making small talk with you. So just piss _off_, all right?"

And he shoved past her, knocking her hard with his shoulder as he did so.

She stumbled back a step... and her injured ankle twisted, shooting a bolt of protesting agony straight up her leg.

She gave a yelp of pain and surprise, and the next thing she was aware of was sitting flat on her bum on the freezing sidewalk as the burgundy chiffon skirts of her evening gown puddled all around her.

And _oh_, the tears wanted to come.

If there was one thing that could be said for her encounter with Malfoy, it was that it had distracted her, however briefly, from all the other... circumstances of this night. It was a distraction that she had been grateful for. And now it was over, leaving her worse off than ever, hurt and miserable in a heap on the ground.

At least this was the lowest she could sink. It couldn't possibly get any worse than this... right?

Wrong.

Just as Draco spun back toward her, his face the picture of astonishment, Hermione's attention was caught by shouts from up the street. She couldn't make out the words, but she recognized the voices, all right. Looking back toward the building where the party had been, she could make out, clearly despite the distance, Ron and Harry. The two of them were standing so close together that they had to be toe-to-toe... and it was patently obvious that they were not engaged in a friendly conversation. Ginny was framed in the open doorway, her hair a corona of fire illuminated by the light that was pouring out onto the stoop, and the dark-haired Italian girl was standing with her arms wrapped tightly about herself, at the foot of the steps. Hermione concluded that she and Ron must have left the party together, and that Harry (and naturally Ginny, seeing as the two of them were attached at the hip) had come out after him.

Harry had something fisted in his hand; Hermione couldn't make out what it was at this distance, but she had a pretty good idea anyway. He was shaking it at Ron for emphasis as he spoke, gesturing with his other arm in a sweeping movement that encompassed the entirety of the street.

"Oh _God_," Hermione breathed, folding her body over so that her head was resting on her knees and clasping both hands around her throbbing, aching ankle, "God, please make it stop. Make this night _stop!_"

"Granger?"

"Get out of here, Malfoy. Leave me alone."

"What are you playing at?" His tone was half irritated, half accusatory. Why oh why didn't he just leave? "I barely touched you."

"My ankle was hurt already. That's _why_ I was in the pharmacy!" It was all she could do not to allow the words to become a wail. She lifted her head, glancing past him down the street, to where Ginny now appeared to be physically restraining Harry - then quickly scanned her surroundings, searching for an escape. Apparating had ceased to be an option; she was so distraught at this point, her concentration so thoroughly shot, that she would splinch for sure.

There was, however, an alley, just past the pharmacy's storefront, that she could probably crawl into before anyone on the stoop registered her presence. If it weren't for Malfoy standing over her, glowering, his uncanny, starlight-colored hair guaranteed to attract someone's attention before long. "Go away, Malfoy, just... _please_ go away."

It was at that point that he muttered something that sounded as if it could have been, "What the _fuck_ did I do to deserve this tonight!?"

It was pure indignation that finally motivated her to raise her head. That was exactly how _she_ felt! How dare he... how dare he... steal her sentiments like that! Just who in the hell did he think he _was!?_

Her angry words died in her throat however, as she took in the fact that he was standing quite still, with a hand extended down to her.

She had to fight back the impulse to actually rub her eyes.

"What... are you doing?" she stammered.

"Regardless of what you may think of me, Granger," he said in a surprisingly calm and steady voice, "I do not make a habit of knocking women down and then walking away. Now take my hand."

She hesitated.

"On the other hand," Draco continued, almost conversationally and looking not directly at her but rather somewhere off over her right shoulder, "I'm not going to stand here freezing my arse off all night. For the last time, Granger - " he flexed his fingers in the age-old gesture for come ON - "take my hand."

Somewhat against her better judgment, she took it.

He pulled her to her feet and even though she was careful to favor it, the pain in her injured ankle still made her cry out. She was astonished when Draco snugged an arm around her waist, steadying her - then froze in horror when she heard, very clearly, her name being called from down the street.

She'd been so worried about Draco attracting attention; and then she'd gone and done it herself.

Draco stiffened as well, turning toward the sound. A block and a half away, four heads had swiveled in their direction at the sound of Hermione's cry. As they watched, Ron, who'd been halfway down the steps by this time, took the rest of them at a vault, and started toward them.

"Should've known they wouldn't be far off," Draco muttered in a patently disgusted tone. He loosened his grip on Hermione. "Looks like your spotted prince is here to save the day."

"_No!_" To her own amazement - and his - she tightened her grip on him almost frantically. "Malfoy, get me out of here!"

He swiveled his gaze onto her, staring at her like she'd sprouted a second head. "Granger, what the hell - "

"I mean it! I can't... I can't _deal_ with them right now! Please!" Oh God, she was begging him. "_Please_ get me out of here."

Ron, apparently near enough now to realize who her companion was, gave a shout and broke into a run. Now Harry took the steps two at a time and started after him. They were closing on her, and fast.

"Malfoy, now!"

He glanced from her, to Ron and Harry, and then back. For a heartbeat's worth of time, then two, she watched the indecision flare behind his pale eyes. "Malfoy, please," she whispered again, debasing herself completely. It was better than facing Ron now, with his brand-new flavor of the night right there, watching. _Anything_ was preferable to that.

"You suppose Weasley's recognized me?" Draco asked then, falling once again into the detached, conversational tone he'd been using a few moments before.

"_Yes!_" Hermione said desperately; she almost sobbed the word.

"In that case, I'll do it," Draco drawled, the same malignant humor glinting in his pale eyes as she had spotted earlier, when he'd been spouting rubbish at the pharmacist. "But you owe me, Granger."

She opened her mouth to retort - owe him, indeed! When she'd only lately saved him from a concussion, or worse! - but before she could utter a single syllable, she was caught by the crushing, breathtaking darkness of side-along Apparition.

Ron's yell of surprised outrage was the last thing she heard before she was whirled away.


	2. Chapter 2

(A/N: This chap is where the fic earns its rating. Smut and dub-con and smutty dub-con ahead. Also... smut. Yeah.)

OoOoOoO

"- Two! One! _Happy New Year!!_"

The sound of the countdown, and the raucous celebration that followed it, drifted up through the floorboards of the room in which she and Draco appeared an instant later. Glancing around, Hermione felt a striking sense of deja vu. Even though she had never been in this particular room before, she was fairly certain she knew where she was.

"Is this - "

"The Leaky Cauldron," Draco said curtly. Disengaging from her, he gestured toward a nearby armchair. "Sit."

"I thought so," Hermione said, sinking into the overstuffed chair as the sounds of merrymaking continued below, "but this room is unusually... er... nice."

"Hah." Draco was across the room, pouring an amber-colored liquid from a bottle into a cut crystal glass. He filled it to the brim, downed it at a swallow, then refilled it and crossed over to her, scrubbing the back of one hand across his mouth as he thrust the glass toward her with the other. "First of all, Granger, it's a suite; I wouldn't be caught _dead _in a common room. And second of all, it bloody well _should_ be nice; the Ministry keeps it on reserve for political bigwigs three hundred and sixty five days a year. You wouldn't believe the bribes I have to pay that damned, crooked innkeeper every time I want to use it. Highway robbery, when you pause to consider how utterly subpar the insulation is. Sounds like that goddamn party is right in here _with_ us. And for God's sake, Granger," he added a second later, "drink the cognac. It's not poison, I promise you."

She looked down at the glass, now in her hand; up at him; down at the glass again.

"I'm not sure I trust how nice you're being all of a sudden," she said warily.

He barked a brief, staccato laugh. When she looked up again, he was wearing a grin that was nothing short of disturbing, his slate-colored eyes glinting.

"Who in God's name," he asked in a deceptively mild voice, "said that nice had anything to _do _with it?"

Rattled, she glanced around for a hard, flat surface on which to set the glass down, but there were none within arm's reach. Then Draco was crouching in front of her, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair, his dusky, almost feral eyes mere inches from her own, on exactly the same level.

"Granger," he said, so close she could feel his breath on her face and see the shadows his lashes inked on his cheeks, "let me tell you what is going to happen. You are going to relieve me of this ungodly hangover, since the way I feel at the moment, I would be guaranteed to bollix it up completely. Then, when I can think straight again, I will heal your foot for you. But right _now_, you're going to take a good, long drink. Because your hands are shaking, you look like hell and I'm beginning to suspect that your evening just might have been almost as atrocious as my own. _Drink_ it, Granger; you need it."

Why did she do it? The way his words washed over her, it almost felt as if he'd hypnotized her somehow; and it would have been easy, later on, to write it off that way. Easy but only marginally true, and Hermione never was one who could ignore truth; even difficult truths.

And the difficult truth here was that she made the decision to drink all on her own. Yes, her defenses were down, but that did not excuse what followed. The fact of the matter was, Draco was right; she'd had an absolute _shit_ night, and in that moment yes, she _did_ feel like she needed that drink.

So she put the glass to her lips, screwed her eyes shut, and tossed the whole thing back, just as she'd seen him do a moment before.

Hermione had very little experience with alcoholic beverages; in fact, in the five years since she'd finished school, she had tasted almost nothing in the way of spirits except for the occasional glass of Champagne while on holiday with her parents; butterbeer, which barely counted at all; and a single intense, and instantly regrettable, shot of firewhiskey at Ron's urging last year.

She now braced herself, therefore, for the eye-watering, mouth-puckering, throat-burning sensation that had accompanied the firewhiskey debacle... but none of that came. The cognac was amazingly smooth; it slid down her throat like liquid satin.

She unscrunched her eyes; opened them slowly. Draco was still there, right in her personal space, watching her with a darkly humorous expression on his face.

"That ... was decent," she managed at length.

"_That_," Draco said, taking the now-empty glass from her, "is three hundred galleons a bottle. And seeing as we only have thirty seconds or so until you start to _feel _it, I'd appreciate your assistance with my... condition... before you're hopelessly inebriated yourself." He pulled out his wand and pressed it into her hand, where the glass had been a moment before. "You know what to do?"

She knew what to do. She'd relieved Ron of many an ill-gotten headache over the years. She raised the wand, drew in a breath... and then stopped. Blinked. Tilted her head to the side. Blinked again, more slowly this time. Said, "you look funny, Malfoy."

For a brief moment, before he was able to master himself, his jaw literally dropped.

"Are. You. Fucking. Serious!? _Granger!_ Are you really that much of a lightweight!? For God's _sake!_"

"You _sound _funny too," she said with authority, and then, "I'm tingling."

"Unfuckingbelievable." He closed his hand around hers, grinding her fingers into his wand with almost bruising force. Then he raised both their hands until the tip of the wand was pressed to his temple.

"Do it, Granger, before you're completely goddamn useless. Do it NOW!"

She swallowed hard, gave her head a shake, and screwed up as much concentration as she could get hold of. Which wasn't much compared to her norm, but enough to do the job. Just. A few murmured words - she knew them by heart, thank you ever so much Ron Weasley - and it was accomplished.

For a few seconds, he actually sagged against her, his relief was apparently so great; bracing an elbow on the chair's armrest, he dropped his head into it, his eyes falling shut, his breath escaping him in a nearly explosive sigh.

That warm, tingly sense of well-being now spreading steadily through her body, Hermione found herself utterly mesmerized by the way his silver-white hair was spilling over and through his fingers; it looked softer than silk; almost ethereal.

She was ridiculously tempted to touch it; run her _own_ fingers through it. It couldn't _possibly_ be as soft as it looked... could it?

She was actually reaching out when he appeared to come back to himself. Abruptly tensing, he rocked back onto his heels, plucking his wand from her hand with careless ease as he did so. When his fingers brushed hers, she felt a nearly electric jolt that caused her to suck in a startled breath.

If he felt anything of the like, however, he concealed it well. All of his attention now seemed to be focused on her injured ankle. The first thing he did was to rip her stocking, peeling it away from her foot. Then, cupping her heel in one hand, he used the other to make several slow passes with his wand, first to assess the damage - which apparently was somewhat complex considering the amount of time he was devoting to it - and then to reverse it.

There was a quick, hot snap of pain at the end that made her gasp; then he allowed her foot to fall to the floor - and there was not the least bit of discomfort associated with its impact. She was well and truly healed.

"Good as new," he said, looking up at her again - and now his fringe was falling half across those disconcerting silver eyes of his for an effect that Hermione found half scintillating, half frightening. She shook her head, trying to clear it - no use. The fog from the alcohol was descending ever thicker. Not that it was unpleasant - to the contrary, it was the farthest thing from it. But it was definitely making it hard to... think.

Catlike, he was on his feet before she understood that he had moved at all. He stood back and crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing her critically. "And now, Granger," he said, "I really think it's time you were going."

His tone was so abrupt that it took a moment, particularly in her current warm-and-floaty state, for it to sink in that he was giving her a supremely unsubtle cue to leave.

She blinked again.

Then stood, feeling as though she were moving languidly through some sort of warm, heavy liquid. When had the air become this viscous?

She swayed a little, but managed to keep her feet. Her bare, ripped-stocking feet. Her strong and perfectly sound feet. It occurred to her that she owed Draco a debt of gratitude for healing her ankle.

No sooner had she opened her mouth, however, then he cut her off.

"Out, Granger." He was on the other side of the room again, pouring himself another glass of cognac, but he paused long enough to gesture brusquely toward the door. "My hangover may be gone, but I've still had a _rare_ fucking night. And whoever said that misery loves company? Never met you."

Her jaw actually dropped a little; of all the brazen nerve! As if _his_ company was so eminently pleasant!

"Fine, Malfoy," she retorted, in what she hoped was a suitably clipped tone of voice (the alcohol was making it impossible to tell for sure). "And a happy New Year to you too."

She turned toward the door, then added over her shoulder, in a moment of drunken inspiration, "Why don't you just go bugger yourself, you stupid, arrogant sot!?"

It was an utterly, _supremely_ uncharacteristic thing for her to say - the sort of thing she'd _never_ have said if she'd had full mastery of herself.

It also changed the course, and outcome, of their entire encounter.

OoOoOoO

She heard him slam down the glass; but she never actually heard him move. An instant later he was simply _there_, snaking his arms around her from behind, yanking her backward against him, hard.

His voice in her ear was half-whisper, half-snarl. "Thanks for the suggestion, Granger," he said, "but I think I just had a better idea. Should've kept your mouth shut - but then that's never been your strong suit, has it?"

"Malfoy," she gasped, stunned, "What - what're -"

Before she could even finish phrasing her question, however, he'd hoisted her bodily off the floor, one arm wrapped round her waist and the other marginally higher, tight around her ribs, and turning with her, crossed the few feet back to the armchair and deposited her none too gently onto it.

This time she found herself backward on the chair, her knees on the seat and elbows on the high cushioned armrests, her cheek pressed hard into the chair's upholstered back. Draco was half behind, half atop her, the hard planes and angles of his body pressing against her, pushing and holding her down. One of his knees was planted firmly between her own, keeping them open despite her best efforts to clamp them shut.

"Malfoy!" She was breathless and shocked. Disoriented too, because things were happening fast - even as the alcohol she had ingested was slowing her thought process nearly to a halt. Under ordinary circumstances, of course she would have grasped exactly what was happening - but compromised as she was, it still hadn't quite hit home. "Let me _go!_"

"Not a chance, Granger," he whispered, and his voice was right in her ear; his lips moving against it, in fact, sending electric shivers all through her. "I told you, I've just thought of a better use for this evening - thank you for clearing my head, by the way. I almost let a golden opportunity pass me right by. No, you're my guest tonight, Granger. _All_ night. And by Merlin -" he let go her waist, plunging his hand instead into her hair and pulling her head back, causing her to arch her back with a cry - "I'm going to _fuck_ you -" his other hand fisted in the fabric of her gown where it was puddled around her knees on the seat of the chair; then he dragged it up the long contour of her thigh, ruching the shimmery burgundy fabric up as he did so until it was bunched around her waist - "senseless."

One hand still buried in her copious hair, he lowered his mouth to the soft place where her throat met her shoulder and planted a hard, bruising, _marking_ sort of a kiss there. She cried out again as his other hand now darted beneath the fabric of her dress, his arm holding her hips hard against him as his hand slid along warm, bare skin; finding its way quickly and unerringly to that most vulnerable of places, protected now by a mere wisp of silk knickers.

"Malfoy, no! _No!_" she half gasped, half shrieked. "Stop it, you can't _do_ this!"

He chuckled; she felt it ripple through his body, which was still pressing her into the chair.

"Now what on earth would make you think _that_, Granger?" he asked almost playfully, nipping at the arch of her neck. "Surely, even as long as it's been since we last saw each other, you remember that in general, I have a habit of doing whatever the hell I want." He dragged his lips up her throat; sucked the lobe of her ear into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the sensitive skin there until she shuddered all the way down to her toes. "And, surprising as we _both_ may find it, at the moment, Granger, what I want is you. You're not unattractive, you know - especially in evening attire. Not," he added, almost as an afterthought, "that you're likely to be in it very much longer."

"I'll scream," she tried desperately.

He laughed again, this time derisively. "Go ahead. Over the noise of that party down below? The only person who has even the _remotest_ possibility of hearing you is that old bastard Tom... and the only thing _he'll_ do about it is hit me up for an extra bribe tomorrow. So be my guest, Granger - since you _are_ my guest, after all - make all the noise you like."

"But... but..." she was halfway to sobbing now. "I _helped_ you!"

"Shhh." Abruptly, he released his fistful of her hair, allowing her head to clunk forward against the upholstered back of the chair once more. He then reached around her body to brush his hand, lightly but deliberately, across her breasts, causing her nipples to jump to attention - whether she wanted them to or not. She threw her head back again, all on her own this time. "I know it goes against every instinct you have, Granger, but just this once... shhhh."

Nuh... nuh... Malfoy... _AHHH - _!!"

This last exclamation was the result of his other hand; his finger had just made contact with her through the thin fabric of her knickers. He began to rub her there, lightly at first, applying more and more pressure with every pass. In a moment's time he was literally _grinding _his fingers against her, though he had yet to push her knickers aside and touch her skin-to skin.

"No, no, no!" she groaned into the cushion. "I can't! I... I... shouldn't... _Ron!_"

Draco snorted derisively. "I don't see a ring on your finger, Granger. Not to mention the fact that, in case you've forgotten, you chose me over him rather decisively, not fifteen minutes ago. No, it's _Weasley_ who'll be buggering himself tonight, not me. _I _have better things to do!"

"_Please!_" She nearly choked on the word, but her body, encouraged by the pleasant warmth of the cognac working its way through her, was responding in spite of her very best efforts. To her deepest chagrin, she found her hips rocking in time to his ministrations. "Malfoy, this is... this... is..."

"This is just what I bloody well _needed_," he told her hoarsely, "and I'll be perfectly honest with you, Granger; that's the only goddamn thing I care about right now."

With that, he shoved her last thin scrap of protection aside; aligned his finger, and plunged it deeply into her.

"_Augh!_" Her whole _body_ arched this time, reacting to the invasion, attempting to throw him off. It was futile The alcohol had wreaked havoc on her reflexes; stolen her strength. "Mal... Malfoy... ohhhhhhh - !!"

"Why, Granger, you naughty little girl," he observed quietly, pausing a moment to run his tongue along her jawline, "you're getting all _wet_."

"I'm _not!_" she insisted, even as she bucked back against him, deepening the penetration. "I'm not, I'm not!"

Again, that horrible, condescending snort of amusement. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, sweetness," he said, continuing to finger fuck her mercilessly even as she buried her face in the upholstery to hide the deep and altogether mortifying flush that was suffusing her cheeks. "Just say the word and I'll stop."

She was going to - she really _was_ - but then he added a second finger to the first and the only sound she was able to come up with was a thoroughly incoherent, whimpering, sobbing sort of moan.

"Feels good, doesn't it, Granger?" he taunted. "No need to answer - your body's telling me everything I need to know."

"Oh, God -" her voice was muffled by the chair cushions, but the anguish in it was clearly discernible nevertheless - "this is so _wrong!_"

"What was that?" He had yanked down the neckline of her gown, allowing freer access to her breasts, and was now palming them each in turn; rolling the nipples between his fingers as she shuddered and panted and moaned. "Did you say something? Were you wanting me to stop?"

"_Nnooooo_..." She was shaking her head back and forth, back and forth, but she was still moving in rhythm with his hands. When he withdrew his fingers from her she actually whimpered at their sudden loss, and when he grasped her thighs in order to shove them further apart, she opened them willingly, and as far as she could.

"No as in stop?" he asked her then, his voice almost as ragged as her own, though still with that taunting edge; "or no as in _don't_ stop? Which is it, Granger? You'd better tell me quick."

"I don't KNOW!" she virtually wailed. "Malfoy... I don't... oh, God... _please!_"

"Well, I gave you a chance," he told her flatly. "Don't ever say I didn't."

It was when she heard the telltale sound of trousers being undone that the panic returned in a bright, hot wave. She renewed her efforts to twist away from him, to no avail whatsoever.

"Malfoy! Stop! Wait, I'm not - oh! Oh! Oh _Nooooo!_"

He attempted to drive himself all the way home with that first single, mighty plunge, but was unable to proceed more than halfway. She was simply too tight, particularly since her body had responded to his onslaught by going tauter than a drawn bowstring. She was shaking all over, and hard; fists clenched in the chair's upholstery, breathing in shallow, rapid, panting gasps, each exhalation another tiny, helpless cry of "oh! - oh! - oh!"

"Oh my... fucking... _God_, Granger, you feel good," he told her, through breaths nearly as harsh and jagged as her own.

"Muh - Malfoy -" she was in the grip of such sensory overload that she could barely form the words - "tuh - too... big!"

"Shhh," he murmured once again, just as he had at the beginning. Just "shhh," and then, moving both his hands to her hips to steady her against him, he pulled out slightly and drove in again.

This time he made it all the way.

She bit a cushion to keep from screaming and then there was nothing to do but hang on.

Nothing in her admittedly limited sexual experience (she'd only ever been with Ron of course, and it had been less than six months since she'd gifted _that_ lying, cheating slimeball with her virginity) had even come close to preparing her for the intensity of... of this. She was being stretched and filled in ways she'd never even imagined were possible. There was pain. But oh, God help her, there was pleasure too. Especially when Draco hissed in her ear, "come on, Granger, I know you're close. You're gonna come for me, and you're gonna tell me when you do."

Letting go her hips - he no longer needed to hold her to him as she was now meeting him thrust for thrust - he returned his hands to their previous locations, teasing the most sensitive parts of her body, urging her toward the climax that was rushing at her like a tidal wave of sensation. And just a few heartbeats' worth of time later, she _did_ come for him; harder than she'd ever come in her life, and with tears streaming down her cheeks, sobbing so hard from the intensity of it that her words were barely comprehensible.

But she did come. And she did _tell _him.

A few seconds later, biting down hard on her shoulder in an unmistakable act of ownership, making her scream all over again, he exploded inside her, flooding her with his seed.

OoOoOoO

Utterly physically and emotionally drained, Hermione slipped into a kind of swoon at that point, collapsing forward, bonelessly, into the chair cushions; her body wracked by lingering shudders, half-conscious at best.

Ragdoll-limp, she offered no resistance whatsoever when he turned her over, his hands now unexpectedly gentle. He held her pressed against his chest with one hand, while the other deftly unzipped the back of her gown; he then pulled it right off, over her head, as if she were a child. Allowing her to sink back against the cushions, he then proceeded to divest her of every other scrap of clothing she had on - right down to the stockings he'd ripped earlier when healing her foot. That done, he gathered her into his arms, pausing just a moment to run his tongue up her jawbone to her ear and to murmur, so quietly that she would later wonder whether he'd actually said it at all, "you're _beautiful_, Granger."

Then, leaving her clothes strewn over the chair, and the cushions badly askew, he carried her effortlessly across the suite and into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them. By the time he'd laid her atop the coverlet of the bed, he already had one of her nipples caught firmly between his teeth and two of his fingers buried inside of her again; leaving her no doubt, as she gasped and whimpered and writhed, that despite all she had just been through, he had barely even begun.


	3. Chapter 3

It was late when she woke; getting on toward noon, on that glitteringly cold first day of the year.

Consciousness came back to her slowly; languidly. Yawning and stretching, a wide, slanting bar of sunlight falling across her, it took her a long, disoriented moment to realize that something was strange.

Opening her eyes confirmed it. This was not her bed, not her room, not her flat at _all _- not even her nightclothes; the first thing she noticed when she pushed herself into a sitting position was that she was wearing a pair of overlarge black silk pajamas... _men's_ black silk pajamas.

The second thing was that she was sore all over.

_Decidedly_ sore all over... and yet, not entirely unpleasantly so.

No, there was a... an unfamiliar and yet undeniable feeling of contentment that accompanied that soreness. It felt as though she'd just been through one holy _hell_ of a workout. Demanding - but rewarding, too.

Which she had to accept, blushing deeply as she used both hands to push her thick, dark hair out of her face, was more or less exactly what had happened.

_Oh, God. Oh, GOD. What have I done?_

Yet the thought was not accompanied by the rush of horror she had expected; no, the only emotions that accompanied it at all were astonishment, curiosity, and a dawning, incredulous wonder.

What had she done? She had just experienced the most overwhelmingly intense, physically punishing and yet unabashedly sensuous experience of her entire _life_. She tried to tot up the number of times she had climaxed the night before, and found that she couldn't. Her blush deepened. She really, honestly couldn't!

Disengaging from the rumpled blankets, she scooted to the edge of the bed; it took a while, this being easily the largest bed she'd ever seen, let alone slept in. Malfoy was neither in the bed beside her, nor anywhere in the room; and although a part of her was relieved to see it, there was another part that was... yes, she might as well own it... disappointed.

_I didn't _really_ expect anything different... did I?_

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and stood, one hand pressing lightly, absently, against the flatness of her lower stomach. There was a warm ache there, way deep inside of her. Merlin, that had been some night. The things he... _they_... had done...

Sleepy, still half in a daze, she drifted toward the living room of the suite, noticing as she went that the pajamas clung to her in a remarkably good fit. Draco was by no means a big, strapping man... but his clothing ought to have been looser on her than _this_. Had he magicked them into fitting her better than they should have? She didn't have any clear memory of when or how the pajamas had gotten onto her at _all_, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he had.

What an oddly... _attentive_ thing for him to have done.

Running a hand through her tangled hair, she passed from the bedroom into the living room, where she stopped, her eyes widening in surprise. An elaborate breakfast awaited her on the suite's dining table, and her clothing had been gathered, cleaned, and in the case of the stockings, mended. Gown, underclothes, they were all laid neatly across the table's far end; and atop the lot of them was balanced a small white envelope.

Crossing the room, she plucked up the envelope and sank down at the table, wincing as she settled on the wooden dining chair; God, she really _was_ still sore.

She poured herself a glass of orange juice first; then slitted open the envelope, shook out the single sheet of parchment contained therein, and began to read.

_1 January 20--_

_Granger;_

_First I want to say thank you - thank you for relieving me of that bastard of a headache last night, and thank you for everything that followed. Mentally speaking, I was in a bad place last night; a very bad place and consequently I was somewhat less than a gentleman. I apologize for that and, though unfortunately business has called me away, invite you to enjoy breakfast on me this morning. I will return around noon and it would make me happier than I probably deserve to be, in light of my behavior toward you, if I were to find you still at the suite. I would like the opportunity to explain to you why I was in that part of town - and that state of mind. I certainly won't blame you if you are long gone by the time I return, but..._

_Please at least consider staying._

_D. Malfoy_

_PS - HOG ANUS. Really, Granger, Tourette's? Really?_

Reading the letter, she'd been so single-mindedly absorbed in the words, written in Malfoy's elegant, cultured script, that she hadn't noticed anything else. It was only after she'd lowered it back to the table, now feeling more dazed and conflicted that at any other time since awakening, that she became conscious of the noises emanating from the nearest window. Turning her head slowly, as if in a dream or a trance, she fixed her attention on the source of the disturbance.

There were two owls perched on the windowsill, staring in at her with enormous, luminous golden eyes. Both were fluffed against the frosty January air. The one that was making most of the racket, pecking impatiently on the glass with its beak while hopping from foot to foot in an effort to stay warm, she immediately recognized as Harry's. It had a letter affixed to one leg upon which she could see that Harry had scrawled the word _Urgent_.

The second owl was Ron's. Not only did it have a letter tied to its leg, but also was holding a rose in its beak and - good Lord, was that what she _thought_ it was? - yes, her engagement ring was dangling from a ribbon that had been looped around its tawny neck.

It was scratching hopefully on the windowpane with the foot that was not burdened with Ron's scroll.

Hermione looked at them for a long time. Both of them had to be freezing, the poor little things. She really ought to let them in. And yet...

Almost against her will, her eyes were drawn back down to the letter in her hands.

There was something so compelling about those words, written right here at this table while she'd slept, in his formal, careful script. Especially when juxtaposed with the way he'd been last night - demanding; unyielding; relentless - all hard angles and bruising hands and nipping teeth and sharp, kinetic energy, as he'd taken her to the brink and then pushed her, pulled her, _dragged_ her over it, willing or not, again - and again - and _again_. A tantalizing flush of warmth suffused her at the mere memory of it.

It was nearly impossible to reconcile that experience with the letter she now held in her hands. Such entirely different facets of the same person. Malfoy certainly was presenting himself as something of an enigma... (post script aside, of course. _That_ was the same old prat she'd been to school with, recognizable anywhere!)

And if there was one thing Hermione Granger absolutely loved, it was an enigma.

A puzzle to solve.

God help her. She was intrigued.

She looked again at the two cold owls on the windowsill... then back down at the letter.

It was almost noon _now_; if his letter could be believed, Malfoy would return very soon. Should she send word to Harry and Ron? Should she gather her things and go? Or should she shoo the owls away and wait?

It was a new day, a new year, and some big new decisions were begging to be made.

Again she glanced at the owls, whose avian expressions, by now, had turned decidedly reproachful. Again dropped her gaze to the parchment in her hand.

She took a deep breath.

Pressed her eyes briefly shut.

And decided.

OoOoOoO

_Finit!_


End file.
